Tir na nOg

31 January 2009

The hapless, tea-drinking moppet from Earth
Hadn’t a clue he was just a glitch of software
The science of white mice decried his birth
As the Vogon’s blast left him threadbare
Save for the friend by the name of Ford
Who gave him a towel for the trip to space
Tortured by Vogon poetry, no art of word
Here is a sample, translated at Babel fish’s place,

“See, see the scary sky
Marvel at its big pink depths.
Tell me, Larry Burns do you
Wonder why the sloth ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel snumblefaced.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your grumplingshinks facial growth
That looks like
A yoghurt.
What's more, it knows
Your caustic potting shed
Smells of old custard.
Everything under the big scary sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You don’t even charm old socks”

After that the dear fish died, no surprise,
And the tea-drinker and Ford were out with the trash
By odds so improbable its impossible to surmise
Zaphod caught the guys on the back lash.
Adventures were made and the Earth’s reason found
A computer its said to work out the question, just one
The meaning of life, the universe and everything is sound
The answer is 42 but what was the problem to be done

It’s bothered me since the radio days
When that psychotic robot started gripping
A manic depressive with miserable ways
I’m there on my bed thinking I’m tripping
There must be answers but mother called me for tea
With a frown and a moan I have to switch off
With wishes for a knack for Vogon poetry
Dedicated as is their way to mother… cough, cough

Now I think I have solved it at last, I’m free
At 42, the question must quite simply be me.

Three little words I found too hard to say,I was wrong and withheld a simple truth,Afraid to see rejection in your eyes,Without poetics and eloquent words,I saw your pain and bitterly regret,I failed to say 'I love you'; I'm sorry.

For all the times I made you cry; sorry,'I don't want to hurt you,' I hear me say,Yet now I live with remorse and regret,My rage hurt the one I love, that's the truth,Engaged in battles of burning cruel words,I'd die when your heart broke within your eyes.

The love once mine shone from those moonlight eyes,All lost to time and I'm left with sorry,To memories of my own poison words,The things a girl should never hear or say,If only you could see what is still truth,Instead I face never ending regret.

From bitter envy to seas of regret,Fed by tears that wept from your dying eyes,I killed the love you gave me for my truth,I never grasped the strength to be sorry,Nor spoke the love you wanted me to say,If only I could have found precious words.

'I love you' three beautiful little words,I never told you, my only regret,Too scared of things you might want me to say,Afraid of the passion beneath your eyes,Oh god baby do you know I'm sorry,I was not able to face my heart's truth.

My fear to embrace love and not its truth,I held back on sharing those heartfelt words,My life too long to keep saying sorry,I live drowning slowly in my regret,I should have looked deep into your blue eyes,'I love you, Gab' is all I had to say.

My love came with truth consoling regret,So precious can words be when said with eyes,I remain sorry I just couldn't say.

The turning hands on clocks will never heal,
my soul lies scarred and bleeding without you.
I feel you here and tears now blur my view,
my heart is lost the visions are too real.
A love so brief gave reason I should be,
and death that dreadful lie tore it away
My sun has set there'll be no other day
but in this moonlit dance we can be free.
Defying fate to drop the veil of night,
too soon to leave this life of hate and fear
I need you, darling once more hold me near,
and fill my life with love's anointing light.
I wait alone in this, my living hell
for you, my love, my darling Gabrielle.

That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.
My tears are shed as she sings blues,
That dark lady I call my muse.
Colours scheming in vibrant hues,
each time I lay there in my bed.
That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.
Ideas float with static clues,
That dark lady I call my muse,
She brings them forth in words to use
In pictures tonal views are read.
That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.

She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.
In thought, imagination’s trip
She holds me tight in vice like grip,
from her chalice I gently sip,
at first it all seems double Dutch
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.
As words and art meet my pen tip
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
she guides the words that form on lip,
the ink on paper now my crutch
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.

That dark lady I call my muse,
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
Eases the way that I confuse,
That dark lady I call my muse.
Images once lost, now diffuse
and on paper they swiftly slip
That dark lady I call my muse,
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
no longer words can I excuse,
That dark lady I call my muse,
As I dwell in fantasies views
I see I’m now her fingertip,
The dark lady I called my muse,
I hold me tight in vice-like grip.

26 January 2009

My love with softened voice so sweetly sings,
where flowers delicately bow and weep,
upon a floating cloud in beauty sleep,
without a care for life's temporal things.
Inspiring whispers trail supernal wings,
across the barren white thoughts gently creep,
to passions only love's dear heart can keep,
to bind two lives with golden wedding rings.
No joy compares to solemn marriage vow,
amity's torch will burn with growing flame,
along conjugal paths of lover's bliss,
that bring a promise of eternal bough,
betrothal seen delight in love proclaim,
and go to times when hearts will reminisce.

Where love remains encased you'll find my heart,
Deny the sun as false delight and zeal,
In fondness crushed my love in stakes of art,
To leave my soul in vapours of torment,
Beyond the dream's enchantment they conceal,
The pain of passion lost without consent.

In darkest corners hidden from her view,
Consort to grief my broken heart will be,
Whilst dancing feet revolve love lies taboo,
Each spasm chafes a chastened heart to cry,
My tears that wash a sweet affair's debris,
The strength to break the chains of her goodbye.

Brilliant skies of surrealistic winter days,Shades of grey lacking in cheer or delighting ways,Mingle with vivid sighs, spring is arriving soon,Icy the winds that recall the white snows of dune.

Children relay the intrigue of her mystery,Seasons reclaim this awakening history,Looking forward to rebirth of our Mother Earth,Colour again will bedeck her ichorous girth.

Nature entices the eyes with exquisite dreams,Winter white winds of elusive elation seems,Out of our reach through belief in the living times,Quickens consoling memories of springs eloquent and sublime.